


You're driving me crazy when are you coming home?

by moonriverdrifter



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Dry Humping, F/F, Incest, It's straight up porn, Oral Sex, Songfic but only kind of, That's all I have planned for now but it's early days yet, There's no plot here kids, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-23 00:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16608266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonriverdrifter/pseuds/moonriverdrifter
Summary: Zelda waits up. Hilda is late and bubblier than usual. Zelda is not happy. Sex ensues.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place some time after S1E10. The lyrics at the beginning and the fic title are from the song "Laid" by James, which I think encapsulates (what my sick little mind imagines to be) Hilda and Zelda's relationship pretty well.
> 
> Also, this was posted before for like two seconds. The original I posted was the wrong copy; it was heavily unedited and just terrible. This one is edited and hopefully it is less awful.

_This bed is on fire with passionate love._  
_The neighbors complain about the noises above._  
_But she only comes when she’s on top._

_“Laid” by James_

Hilda comes in out of the rain in her costume from the shop, carrying her horrible wig under her arm. And she’s an hour later than she said she would be, and Zelda has kept her dinner, even though it’s almost the witching hour, even though everyone else is in bed. Zelda cannot sleep, so she is in the kitchen. 

She is waiting up for Hilda, though never in a million years would she cop to it. She watches the clock and smokes, lighting her cigarettes on the stove because she’s got no bloody clue where her matchbook is and if she tries to find it she’ll just end up tearing everything apart and it wouldn’t do, to destroy her whole damn house on one of the rare nights when Ambrose and Sabrina are both home. It happens so seldom these days that she’s leery of doing anything to scare them away, because she’s well aware that if they leave now they might not come back.

And when Hilda finally strolls through the door, an hour late, humming and practically skipping, she is too happy, too shiny, and there is something different about her. And as soon as Zelda sees her wide eyes and mussed hair and uneven lipstick, as soon as she smells the commingled scents of sweat and saliva, she knows exactly what that something is, and she wonders if it's really possible that they were raised by the same mother, the same meticulous woman who lived to keep up appearances. Zelda is no vestal virgin; she likes to fuck, but she's also proper; she has standards, and she doesn’t like to announce to the entire world that she’s just been on her back, or her knees, or whatever position she’s been contorting herself into.

Zelda sits fuming at their modest little kitchen table, where they’ve cooked together, canned together, cajoled and comforted their niece and nephew together. And Hilda is simply chatting, setting down her stupid wig, checking her hair in a mirror, walking over to the stove to see what’s left over from dinner. She'll be bringing hellfire down on herself if she tells her sister that she’s not hungry, that she had a bagel at the bookstore. So she just gets a ladle full of Zelda’s beef and vegetable soup, the soup that’s a weak facsimile of the one Hilda makes. Derived from the same family recipe, but not as savory, because Zelda’s never been the chef, not really; she’s competent but not creative.

Hilda brings her bowl over and sits down at the table, and finally looks at her sister properly, and she knows right away that something is wrong, wonders why she didn’t see it before. The bottom drops from Hilda’s stomach, because sweet Lucifer, she’s been gone all day and only just made it through the door; what could she possibly have done this time? It doesn’t occur to her that her prolonged absence is precisely what’s wrong with Zelda, because Zelda has been trying to get rid of Hilda since time immemorial. 

“Zelds?” she says, and her overly cautious tone just seems to deepen the other woman’s frown. “Sister, what’s the matter?”

Zelda purses her lips, considers simply offering up the silent treatment, then decides that no, nastiness is what this situation calls for; it’s the tool she needs to extract every single divine bit of suffering, to do the most damage both to herself and her sister. Besides, she never could resist any opportunity to torment Hilda, and this time she's done it herself by being too lazy to just touch up her damn lipstick.

“Did you have fun tonight, with that Bela Lugosi wannabe in his filthy little shop?”

Hilda’s spoon falls from her hand, clattering to the floor and instantly forgotten in the sheer confused panic of the situation.

“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hilda replies. 

Zelda only scoffs, standing up so quickly it almost gives her sister whiplash. She bends over, scoops the renegade utensil from the floor and tosses it over her shoulder, not even needing to look to know that it’s found its home in the sink.

“Don’t play innocent with me, sister. Do you really think I don’t know what fresh sex looks like? What it smells like?”

Hilda’s mouth is opening and closing, and the most she can muster is a kind of little squeak, and Zelda thinks _yes, I’ve embarrassed her_. If she knew the truth, if she could see into the other woman’s head, she would retrieve that spoon and use it to scoop Hilda’s eyes out. Because all Hilda can imagine is Doctor Cee’s lips and hands and tongue, the plane of his chest so close against the peaks of hers, the sounds and smells and sensation of him in the back storeroom. And Zelda can feel it, too, can feel the surge in Hilda’s magic, her magic that is familiar to Zelda as her own heartbeat, and that stupid mortal has taken that from her as well because this magenta-burning wave of energy is not the green and gold and earthy brown she associates with her sister.

Zelda feels the loss of that quiet domestic energy, but it is a hollow sense of loss. It strikes even Zelda herself as wrong, because what’s been willingly given to someone else was never hers to take, and she’s wrong and bad for thinking this way. There are taboos, even among the profane, and Zelda should not want what she wants. All her life Zelda has been aware that there’s something wrong with her, but it was all right as long as that something wrong was sleeping in the next bed over, an arm’s length from her but still leagues away.

And now the distance has grown into a chasm, and Zelda can see no way across it, and her brain is spinning and for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t know what to do. So she does the only thing that makes sense; she leans over her sister, using the full command of her not really all that great, but still intimidating to someone so small, height, and she brings her lips close to Hilda’s ear and hisses: “What base did you get to, Hilda? Did he slide all the way into home?” She already knows the answer, but she is pleased when her sister shivers, and when tears shine in her eyes.

She’s even more pleased when Hilda sets her jaw and stands up, faces her down. Oh, Hilda so rarely does this, and Zelda secretly loves it; if she had the softness inside her for it, Hilda’s rare shows of grit would make her swoon and sigh.

“That,” Hilda grounds out, “is none of your business.”

“I’m only _asking_ , Hilda,” replies Zelda, in a saccharine tone, “We’re sisters, aren’t we? We’re supposed to tell each other _everything_.”

“Why would I tell you, when I know you’re just going to make jokes and snide remarks? Why do you even care?”

Hilda’s lower lip is trembling now, and damn her to heaven, it’s just so cute, adorable in a way that Hilda cannot possibly comprehend because even if she has been defiled, she’s still so innocent. Unless _Doctor Cee_ is an absolute sexual powerhouse, which Zelda sincerely doubts, there’s absolutely no way he could have shown her everything in just one night. There’s still something left for Zelda; sloppy seconds, maybe, but even that is better than nothing.

“I care, sister,” Zelda says softly, and she’s inching closer and closer until she’s got the smaller woman cornered, literally, trapped where one row of cabinets meets another.

“Zelda…” There is an edge to Hilda’s voice that startles Zelda. She suspects that Hilda herself doesn’t know what it means, probably isn’t even aware that it’s there. But Zelda is very, very practiced at reading the signs of other people’s arousal, and she’s the world’s leading expert in all Hilda’s emotions, and that edge is the go-ahead she needs, because it means that she’s not just imagining things, that maybe her sister is just as twisted as she is, just sick enough not to stop her…

“I care a great deal,” finishes Zelda, and then her lips are on Hilda’s, and she tastes like cream cheese and bubble gum, and beneath it all there’s the taste of _him_ , masculine and vile, and Zelda is now determined to purge it from her sister. But Hilda’s lips do not move, though she does gasp. In shock, yes, but there’s that edge again, that hint of something else, so Zelda does not stop. Instead, she does what she has wanted to do for…years? Decades? Centuries?

She sinks her teeth into Hilda’s still-quivering bottom lip, and Hilda responds then, and she cannot possibly know how downright lewd her moan is, how it goes straight to the core of her sister. Zelda answers with her own little hum of pleasure, and she puts her hands on Hilda, on her shoulders, and her tongue probes the seam of Hilda’s lips.

The moment of truth: is this just two girls playing games, or something deeper, darker, more delicious? Will Hilda open up and let her in?

Zelda wants to rejoice when she does, wants to throw a bloody cotillion, but Hilda’s mouth is all the celebration she needs, her mouth and the inexpert way she uses it, proving to Zelda that no, the damnable _Doctor Cee_ doesn’t know everything; certainly, he doesn’t know a fucking thing about kissing, because he hasn’t shown Hilda what to do with her tongue. But that is fine. Zelda is the older sister; she is used to leading by example.

And lead she does, brushing her own tongue against Hilda’s teeth, and then probing deeper; soft, patient strokes. If she weren’t making out with her sister in the dead center of family space, where either of the younger witches under their care could walk in on them, it might actually be sweet. But Hilda’s mouth is sweet enough; she’s all sugar and hesitation and potential, and Zelda is drunk with it. When the older witch finally releases her, Hilda is dazed; she’s no idea what to say now, what to do, how to proceed. All she knows is that Zelda’s mouth is gone and she feels the loss, in reaches of her so deep she didn’t even know they were there until this very moment.

She whines her sister’s name, and it is answered with the return of Zelda’s lips, at her ear this time, licking at her earlobe and then sucking, making Hilda bite her tongue to stop the loud and decidedly obscene groan that threatens to escape her. Zelda’s mouth moves just a few millimeters over, and Hilda discovers that there is a part of her, between her earlobe and her neck, that is directly connected to the nerves between her legs.

“Oh, Satan, Zelda…” Her voice has never sounded so husky, so breathy. Even Doctor Cee couldn’t make her sound like _this_. “Zelda, I want…”

“Shh…” Her sister’s breath ghosts over her neck, “I know what you want.”

And then the polyester of Hilda’s costume is rising from where it just sweeps the floor, bunched in Zelda’s hands, and her ankles are exposed to the air, her calves and knees and thighs, and Zelda’s fingers are underneath the dress, drawing tight, taut circles as they quest. Hilda can’t help the violent jerk of her hips as Zelda’s fingers brush softly over the front of her panties, plain white cotton, soaked through now to the point that Hilda can feel it.

“This is what you want,” Zelda croons into her ear, and Hilda nods even though it is not a question, and she is surprised when her sister’s long fingers reach under the band of her underwear immediately, through her golden-blonde down and right to the center of her. She expected Zelda to tease, because Zelda has been teasing her all her life, Zelda never just gives you what you want. 

But now she does, and Hilda’s head is spinning with it. She’s shaking and shivering, a leaf in an infernal gale, and Zelda’s finger finds her clit so easily, slides over and through her wetness like a knife in butter. And she somehow knows exactly how Hilda likes to be touched, how she touches herself in the bath or while she’s pretending to take a nap or, more recently, alone in her own bedroom, though that’s not as exciting; it’s not fun unless there’s the possibility of Zelda walking in on her and finishing the job.

She is dangerously close to doing exactly that now, and Hilda’s worried she’ll finish too fast, but Zelda won’t stop. She traces the pads of her fingers over her little sister’s bud, up one side and then down the other and then varying it, up and down and up again and then Hilda herself is rising. If not for Zelda’s arm around her waist, she would crash to the floor, and Zelda’s mouth on hers is all that keeps her from shrieking her climax loudly enough to wake everyone in the house and all the corpses in the cemetery to boot.

“Zelda…Zelda…” All Hilda can do as she comes down is mutter her sister’s name like an unholy sermon, and then Zelda is there, her lips and tongue tracing Hilda’s jaw.

“That…” pants Hilda, “I’ve never…”

Zelda’s breath is hot over her sister’s cheek. “Darling,” she says with not a little bit of amusement, “That is only a fraction of what I can do to you.”

And Hilda is trembling again, how could she not, under Zelda’s fingers and lips and promises?

All too soon, Zelda’s hand creeps from the confines of Hilda’s panties, leaving her sister to cool off, to anticipate a little bit now that she’s had just the smallest taste of what Zelda is capable of, what her own body is capable of, the things that Zelda can make her body do.

The kitchen is stewing in the aroma of sex, familiar enough for Zelda but an unknown quantity for her sister, who thinks that she is probably just the slightest bit nasty for finding it alluring, but can’t find it in her to care. And then Zelda mutters an incantation under her breath, and all either witch can smell is old wood and lemons and the dinner that has now gone cold on the stove.

But Zelda has not cleaned her fingers; she still has Hilda on her skin, and only Hilda; there’s no trace of anyone or anything else, certainly no male pollution, and now it’s Zelda’s turn to look at her sister in shock, and Hilda cannot fathom why, until Zelda chokes out: “So…so you didn’t…with him…you didn’t?”

Hilda shakes her head, offers up the tiniest of smiles, and Zelda doesn’t know how to feel, because on one hand, this is what she wanted, isn’t it, to be her sister’s first? This is the pivot on which all her sickest, most jealously-kept secrets have turned for as long as she can remember. But, Lucifer, if she had known…if she had known maybe she wouldn’t have been so aggressive in forcing this to its apotheosis. She might have given Hilda more time, let her come to Zelda on her own…

But Hilda is coming to her now, and there’s need in her eyes, and she stands on the tips of her toes to wrap her arms around her sister’s neck and kiss her, slowly, sweetly, and the last time Zelda was ever kissed like that was when she was a virgin herself, long, long ago. She never knew she needed to be kissed like that, but with Hilda holding her, it seems like something too obvious for her to have possibly overlooked.

And then the kiss is over, almost as soon as it began, and it is Hilda’s turn to whisper seductively, to turn Zelda’s legs to jelly.

“Sister,” she says, surprised by her own boldness, “You promised me more…”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *opening riffs from "Let's Get It On"*

Hilda is right; Zelda has promised her more. Hilda kisses her again, runs her hands up Zelda’s sides and back down, once, twice, and Zelda is prepared to pledge anything, anything if only she’ll keep doing that. She wants to do everything with Hilda, try every nasty little trick she knows and maybe invent a few new ones, too, but none of it is possible here. She needs space to spread Hilda out, to let her unfurl and blossom and wriggle and writhe. And, also, sick and wrong as she is, she isn’t up to the level of perversion it would take to fuck Hilda atop the table where the entire family takes their meals. Maybe that will come later, as this thing evolves and the sisters sink together, deeper and deeper into sweet perdition.

For now, though, she pants one quick word against Hilda’s lips: “Upstairs.”

“Your room?” Hilda asks, when Zelda disengages them and takes her hand, all but pulling her towards the foyer and the staircase. 

Zelda shakes her head, because no, the baby’s in there, so it’ll have to be Hilda’s. In the weeks since Hilda moved out, the older woman has been wracking her brain, trying to name one good thing, just one, that can come of them having different rooms, and now here it is, undeniable, and Zelda’s too aroused to be annoyed.

They make it about halfway down the hall when Hilda’s hand, quite by accident, brushes her sister’s ass, and Zelda doesn’t get more than a fragment of a thought out before her palms are against the wall on either side of Hilda, her mouth drawing soft whines from the smaller witch as Zelda wanders her neck. And Zelda bites down, can’t help herself; she’s never been a gentle lover. She had every intention of trying, for her virgin sister’s sake, but it’s a struggle, because Zelda’s in flames and Hilda is so tempting and she just forgets.

Hilda squeals, and it’s cute and satisfying at the same time, but it’s also too loud, and there’s rustling coming from Sabrina’s room. The two women break apart by mutual accord just seconds before the door opens and their niece slides into the hallway, all bewilderment and concern.

“Aunties?” she asks, groggy with sleep, “Is everything okay?”

Zelda’s gone mute and stupid. Her heart is a steam engine in her chest and her cheeks are stained just a shade or two lighter than the color of Hilda’s arousal, and she can’t formulate a cogent response because Hilda’s softness and sweetness have broken her brain.

Thankfully, at least one of them can still do something other than stand there like an idiot. Hilda, not naturally given to dishonesty, now lies so fluidly that it is its own kind of witchcraft, and it’s also ridiculously _sexy_ , and that just strikes Zelda even dumber.

“Everything’s fine, lamb,” Hilda says, switching without trouble to the normal perky tone she always uses with Sabrina, “Aunt Zee and I were just turning in, and I tripped over my own two feet and hurt my ankle. Zelda’s helping me.” She even has the presence of mind to list a bit to the right, as though her ankle really can’t handle her weight.

“Yes,” says Zelda, placing a hand on her sister’s shoulder as if to steady her when really what she’s doing is rubbing insistent little circles through the fabric of Hilda’s dress, “It’s—everything’s fine. Go back to bed, sweetheart.”

And Sabrina does, even if she looks the slightest bit suspicious, but she probably just thinks her aunts are plotting something, probably trying to figure out how best to meddle in her all-important adolescent affairs now. Once her door is closed, Zelda is all but hauling Hilda to the end of the corridor, into the bedroom she’s taken, smaller than the other one—her _real_ one—less personal, because Hilda’s had decades to make her mark on the room that Zelda still thinks of as theirs. She’s only been here for two weeks, tops, and most of that time has been spent in that appalling little bookstore with that man.

The thought of _him_ ignites fresh ire in Zelda, and she unceremoniously pushes Hilda to the mattress, immediately feeling bad about it because Hilda’s confused now. She can read Zelda just as well as Zelda can her, and she can’t imagine what she’s done to call up the sudden dark glint in the older woman’s eyes.

But Zelda does not give her time to agonize over it. Like a shot she is on the bed beside Hilda, and her arms are around her again and their lips touch, and there’s no malice here, not anymore. There’s only Zelda: the smoky way she tastes, the aroma of the cream she rubbed in after her bath and the earthy scent of her beneath all the rest. It’s a smell that Hilda has always loved and not had enough occasion to trace directly to its source, so she tries now, breaking from Zelda’s mouth and burying her face in the other woman’s neck, and Zelda is confused when she does nothing, nothing at all but simply inhale. 

She’s on the verge of asking what Hilda’s playing at when those lips flutter at the space between her neck and jaw, and then Hilda’s kissing more firmly, then licking. Zelda is shocked to realize that she can moan high-pitched and delicate like the heroines in her sister’s trashy novels. Usually she growls and grunts and screams like the feral succubus all her lovers—well, all but one, withholding bastard—have assured her she is. But this is better, this gentleness, so much better than Zelda thought anything could be. 

Hilda moves her mouth upward, towards Zelda’s ear, to do what Zelda did before, and when she licks and sucks there it’s a little tentative, quite inexpert, but it has lightning bolts firing all the way to Zelda’s groin, and she must find a way to stop it. Because this isn’t supposed to be about her. It was, at first; it was about her resentment and her frustration and the fact that the only action she’s gotten in at least a decade and a half is Faustus fucking Blackwood, who wouldn’t know a clit from a cormorant.

But now it’s supposed to be about Hilda, because it’s her first time, and Zelda’s making it all about herself like she always does. So she breaks away from her sister, and Hilda is confused again and almost hurt, plainly can’t figure out what she’s done wrong, and Zelda really should just say something reassuring. But comfort has never been her area of expertise; when someone is hurt they go to Hilda. So Zelda does the only thing she can think to do to let Hilda know it's all right: she puts her hands on Hilda’s back and her lips over the other woman’s fuller, poutier ones, and guides her down until Hilda’s fully lying on the bed.

She breaks away for just a moment, long enough to shrug out of her floral-patterned robe and banish it to a corner, and then she’s on Hilda, catlike, swinging her hips over until she’s straddling the smaller woman. Hilda reaches for her, and Zelda comes down, and they’re working together in a cacophony of throbbing lips and probing tongues, hands sliding into hair and labored breathing. And then Zelda lets her weight settle; they’re closer now than they’ve ever been, physically that is, and Hilda thinks it’s the most delicious thing she’s felt in her life.

Zelda’s just in her satin nightgown, and Hilda’s absurd costume dress is only slightly thicker and she hasn’t even had the decency to wear a slip underneath it, and the sisters can feel one another and it’s glorious and wicked and _right_. Now Zelda sits up just the slightest bit, because she has bigger plans, but Hilda protests the loss, one hand coming up to grasp her sister’s wrist, then tracing little circles, marveling in the softness of the flesh. 

Zelda allows the younger witch to touch her in earnest, because Hilda wants to explore and when her hands skim over Zelda’s arms and down to her waist, softly brushing the small of her back, all thoughts of stopping it and taking back control are gone. Hilda’s all over her back, her waist and hips, feeling taut muscle through the satin of the nightgown, learning the alluring curves that she can’t quite muster up the daring to pull up the fabric and reveal, not that she doesn’t already know them, by sight, anyway.

She does slide her hands underneath, though, that much she has the courage to do. Hilda finds her way down Zelda’s ass to where the gown ends just at her knees, and then she’s touching skin and Zelda has to make a conscious effort to breathe because all her instincts have become focused on squirming beneath her sister’s ministrations. The only thing is that she wishes Hilda would linger, on her thighs or her bottom or her stomach, but the younger woman is feverish, just feeling, just experiencing, and Zelda doesn’t dare complain. She loves it too much, doesn’t want it to stop, so she does not interfere.

And her patience is rewarded when Hilda’s hands leave her waist and venture up to her chest. She palms Zelda’s breasts, and now she’s finally found a spot where she wants to spend a little time. She’s been seeing Zelda naked since before Zelda even had breasts, and plenty of times since, because when you share a nursery with someone and then sleep in the same room for more than a century it would be ridiculous to get hung up on nudity. So she knows what her sister looks like, knows the lily-petal skin and soft pink nipples, would be able to pick Zelda’s tits out from a police lineup. But Hilda has spent an inordinate amount of time wishing she could know what Zelda’s breasts might feel like in her hands, under her tongue, what she might taste like there. 

There’s nothing she can do about the latter two while Zelda’s still got her nightgown on, but she slides her hands all over her sister’s chest, over the rises and curves of Zelda and down to the underside where the skin is warm and softer than anything in the world has a right to be. Hilda holds the older witch’s breasts in both hands for a moment, marveling in the weight of them, the heat, the way that, when she squeezes just slightly, the flesh conforms to the shape of her hand, springs back when she lets go. 

And then her fingers are questing again, and she skims Zelda’s nipples and her sister hisses and throws her head back, and Hilda has never felt so powerful, certainly not while within five miles of Zelda, so she does it again, can’t stop herself from doing it, teasing until both little peaks have gone rigid and Zelda’s breathing is off kilter and she’s hardly even aware of the way her hips tilt forward and then back over Hilda’s pelvis.

Hilda lets out a sigh at the feeling of that, and she’s desperate for Zelda to keep it up, so she dispenses with just touching and instead flicks one nipple with her index finger, perhaps a bit harder than she meant to. But it gets the desired result, because Zelda actually cries out this time and grinds into Hilda again, and again as Hilda takes that same hardened nipple in between her fingers and pinches. She does it carefully at first, but that elicits only a modest response, just a small quirk of Zelda’s hips, so Hilda presses harder until she gets what she wants, until Zelda’s groaning and her pelvis is crashing down on her sister’s.

It’s deliberate now; she’s moving in earnest, fucking Hilda through their clothes, and it feels more natural than she imagined it would, things being what they are, but it also gets boring after a while, all this friction hampered by fabric. Zelda raises herself just the slightest bit, so that she can grab Hilda’s dress where it’s rucked up at mid-calf. She pulls the fabric further, letting it pool around her sister’s waist, and then lifts Hilda’s panties from her skin, noting how they come away so wet she ends up with smears of her sister’s essence all over her palm. Hilda helps by wiggling her hips and then kicking the panties away when Zelda’s got them halfway down her legs, and then Zelda reaches beneath her own nightgown, grasps her underwear at the hips and shimmies out of them, and Hilda hums her desire as Zelda moves above her. 

That hum nearly undoes Zelda, and now she’s too impatient to bother getting her underwear fully off, so she settles for freeing one leg and then letting the garment come to rest around the other thigh. She descends on her sister again, spreading her legs obscenely and shifting her hips forward, and Hilda whines as she experiences possibly the most intimate touch of her life. Nothing in the world has ever been as nice as this, as good as Zelda’s heat and wet on her own, Zelda’s stomach and breasts pressed to Hilda’s. Zelda moaning into her mouth as her tongue slips in like it belongs there and the way that her ass bounces as Hilda sinks her fingers first into one supple cheek and then the other, pulling her closer as she tries to match her sister’s rhythm and soon gives up, because she doesn’t really know what she’s about and Zelda’s more than competent. 

And Hilda’s almost gone anyway, lost in the little sparks that go through her each time Zelda bucks against her, but eventually she realizes that this is all she’s getting, little sparks. It’s not like when Zelda touched her earlier in the kitchen, the sparks igniting blazes that then built into pure hellfire. But she doesn’t want to say anything, doesn’t want to bring this to an end, because she doesn’t know what Zelda’s feeling and she would never want to ruin anything for her. And she likes the pressure of Zelda on her, Zelda’s fluids dripping between Hilda’s legs, the sweat that’s now slicked through her nightgown where Hilda’s hanging on. She loves it all so much, but…

“It’s not enough,” she pants, unconsciously, and then Zelda’s eyes meet hers, but there’s no anger there, no disappointment, nothing else but lust. 

Zelda brings her head down to kiss her sister, no tongue this time—though Hilda tries—before whispering, “I know. I know it isn’t.”

And then she rises, and Hilda feels the loss of her mouth and breasts and her naked, rolling hips, and frowns at the emptiness.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh shit look who's back! I've been preoccupied with school for the last few days, but I was missing this fic, and I decided it needed an update.

Zelda’s skin and lips are gone for just a fraction of a second, and it’s still too long; the air in the room is chilly on Hilda’s flushed thighs and wet sex, and she groans in protest. And Zelda is chuckling above her, a real, genuine laugh and not the condescending tone of disapproval she usually reserves for her sister.

“It’s all right,” she says, in that husky low voice of hers, the tone Hilda has heard when Zelda returns home red-faced and walking crooked and is smug and stupid enough to believe that Hilda doesn’t know exactly what she’s been getting up to. Hearing Zelda’s voice sound like that has always turned Hilda into a storm of competing arousal and emptiness, because it turns her on, yes, but it also reminds her that she’s never in her whole life experienced even half of what Zelda has in one night, and she’s not likely to, ever. 

And it also means that Zelda’s been with someone else, possibly several someones. Hilda has never judged her sister for liking sex or for sleeping around. Zelda could suck and fuck the entire coven right in front of her, and Hilda would still love her, still want her, and that’s what always made it so sad, because Zelda could give herself over to others so easily, but she’d never be Hilda’s.

But now she is, even if only for tonight, and that note of arousal is for Hilda, and it throws the younger witch for a loop, because no one has ever sounded like that, not because of anything she’s done. Though admittedly, before this, the closest she’s ever gotten to sex is Doctor Cee’s hand underneath her ridiculous costume dress, the dress that Zelda is now pulling the rest of the way off of her until Hilda’s naked except for her bra.

When Zelda comes back to her sister, the satin of her nightgown is smooth and sinful against Hilda’s bare skin, and she cannot control the way that she rises up, tries to press as close as possible, because at this point she doesn’t care if little sparks are all she can get; she just wants her sister. Zelda indulges her, momentarily, lets Hilda buck up into her, flatten herself against Zelda’s body, kiss her lips. But when Hilda tries to wrap her legs around her sister’s waist, she pulls back.

Hilda doesn’t have time to protest, nor to ask what Zelda’s playing at, before the older witch’s hands are on her, skimming up her sides, and Hilda hates herself for giggling, for probably ruining the mood, but really, Zelda knows better than anyone else that Hilda is ticklish. She used to revel in it as a child, tickling the smaller girl until Hilda was crying and shrieking from the sensory overload, begging for it to stop. And as bad as that was, as much as Hilda emphatically had not enjoyed it, the only thing worse was when Zelda decided they were too old for that kind of nonsense and stopped doing it, stopped touching Hilda altogether.

But Zelda was right, all those years ago; Hilda is too old for this. She’s a grown woman and it’s embarrassing to be laughing and snorting beneath her sister’s hands, and her cheeks burn with shame whereas before they had been red with arousal…until Zelda comes down to meet her, her lips covering Hilda’s again, taking the sound of her sister’s laughter into her own mouth.

“I forgot about that,” Zelda says when they break apart, almost as though she can’t believe it, that such a thing could have slipped her mind.

Hilda doesn't know what to say, doesn't get a chance to say anything before Zelda's hands are sliding around to Hilda’s back, to the clasp of her bra, which Zelda undoes easily before pulling the garment away from her skin. Hilda’s laid bare now, exposed to the atmosphere and to Zelda’s eyes, her criticism and derision, and she panics. 

All she’s thinking about is how she’s never been tall and slender like Zelda is, like their mother was, how Zelda and Mama both used to wonder out loud exactly where Hilda had got her figure from, how she ended up so little and so thick, so unlike the rest of the family. There’s always been more weight to her, more awkwardness; she’s all flared hips and tummy pooch and thighs that rub together when she walks and now she’s no longer young so everything that was never perfect to begin with has shifted ever so slightly downwards and oh, Satan, how do people do this? Why would anyone ever expose themselves to _this_?

It’s this, this hesitation bordering on terror that has kept Hilda chaste for so long, this thing that she calls self-knowledge which tells her she isn’t something anyone could ever find attractive. This is what has kept her untouchable and untouched, all wrapped up in floral dresses and thick tights and loud cardigans that scream “I am a crazy lady stay away,” because she’s never been able to do anything but cover up what she sincerely believes nobody wants to see. And it’s stupid, especially right now, because Zelda has seen her, of course; her sister knows what she looks like, but only at a distance, only from across their bedroom. And now Zelda’s so close, near enough to examine and catalogue every tiny imperfection, to judge, to comment.

And yet she does none of that, and Hilda doesn’t know why, because that would be the Zelda thing to do, wouldn’t it? But instead of criticizing, Zelda is touching, blazing her palms up her sister’s back and bringing her hands over her shoulders, her neck, up to tangle in her hair and pull her closer. 

As they kiss, tongues dancing, Hilda’s arms unconsciously rising to wrap around Zelda’s waist, suddenly she’s struck with a realization. _This_ is why people do it, why they make themselves vulnerable; it’s the jolt Hilda gets each time Zelda’s tongue swipes her own, the heavy anticipatory euphoria when Zelda’s hands move on her skin. The new knowledge that her left nipple’s nerve endings extend all the way to her groin as her sister flicks and then pinches it, all the while kissing and licking and suckling on her neck, her sternum and her chest.

And if it seems to her that Zelda is spending an inordinate amount of time there instead of moving on, downward to her breasts, to where Hilda really wants her, the younger sister doesn’t dare say anything. Nor will Zelda ever elaborate on why she takes so much time here. The truth is, she can taste _that man_ on her sister’s flesh, and she’s struggling to reign herself in, to keep from commenting, biting, punishing, as the knowledge that _he_ has been here too sinks in. She can smell his saliva on Hilda, can taste it, and it’s disgusting and it has no place here, and something in Zelda’s lizard brain compels her to erase all remnants of him, to replace him with her own scent, her own spit and skin and lust.

Besides, she likes the noises Hilda makes when she sucks on her neck, softly at first and then hard enough that she’ll have a mark to hide from Sabrina and Ambrose tomorrow. Zelda is captivated by the softness of her sister, the way she shudders when Zelda’s tongue brushes new terrain. The almost tentative hand that gathers in her hair as she makes her way down, slowly, lips skimming small freckles and light skin and torrid areas of deep pink as excitement raises blotches on Hilda’s flesh.

Then there’s the way Hilda’s entire body rises up off the bed as Zelda finally, finally swipes her tongue over a nipple. It’s such a small and almost careless action, but Hilda’s smothered declaration of “Oh, Satan” has Zelda breaking out into the smallest of satisfied grins against Hilda’s flesh, because the extremity of her reaction means that it’s all new. No one’s ever touched her there, and whatever temporary markers _that man_ might have left, she’s still Hilda’s first.

The knowledge is exhilarating, and it stokes Zelda’s arousal, which in turn makes her love Hilda that much harder, makes her take a delicate bite at Hilda’s nipple and then pull the whole thing into her mouth, sucking hard. This earns her the kind of groan that she can hardly believe her sister capable of producing—deep and sultry, dripping with sex. It’s a sound that Zelda finds she loves, and that she is newly determined to bring out of Hilda as much as she can. She lets go of her sister’s nipple and switches to the other, repeating the lick-bite-suck routine that Hilda seems to enjoy, and Hilda clings, desperate to keep Zelda where she is, to keep her sucking and laving one breast while palming the other forever.

And Zelda thinks that she could be content to do exactly that, because she’s only been fantasizing about this exact thing ever since she was old enough to feel any kind of way about sex. She’s wanted Hilda at least that long, and possibly for even longer, has never really been able to imagine anyone else for her besides Hilda. 

Even when she and her sister used to play in the nursery, their dolls and stuffed creatures were never friends; they were children, and they never belonged to just one sister but rather to both of them, jointly. And Zelda was happy recreating those blissful domestic scenes, just the two of them. She used to be remarkably good at getting along with her sister, but only as long as it was her and Hilda together. When Hilda began insisting on her own games and toys to herself, that was when Zelda began bullying in earnest, and kept it up throughout the years, out of sheer frustration at what she thought she could never have and the belief that actively pushing Hilda away—and also occasionally pushing her down the stairs just for good measure—was the better alternative to letting herself get close enough for Hilda to hurt again.

But now Hilda is drawing her close, drawing her in, pressing Zelda’s face hard against her breast, and it’s almost too hard to breathe and Zelda doesn’t care, because she likes the feel of her sister’s skin, the taste of her sweat, and above and beyond all of that, she can smell Hilda. The scent is sharp and musky and alluring, and Zelda is drawn to it. She releases Hilda’s nipple and lets that scent draw her down, pausing only once or twice, to kiss between the younger woman’s breasts, to dip her tongue into Hilda’s navel, to let Hilda’s golden-blonde pubic hair tickle her chin, press a little kiss and marvel at the fact that she can taste herself there, left over from when they were mindlessly grinding together. 

And then she’s right where she wants to be, with Hilda’s musk all around her, drawn into her sister. Hilda hisses at the first swipe of Zelda’s tongue up the seam of her lips, and then moans when Zelda opens her up, licks again from her opening to her clit, flicking the latter with the point of her tongue. Hilda actually jumps at that, feels like she’s just been electroshocked, and then she cannot process all of the sensations as Zelda begins licking her once more. She traces her tongue up and down Hilda’s clit, and it’s like nothing the younger witch has ever known before, like Zelda’s killing her and it feels so good that she can’t bring herself to care about her surely-impending death.

Hilda’s hips are rolling on the bed now; she’s lost all control of everything from the waist down. Her pelvis moves of its own accord, searching out Zelda’s tongue, which is now alternating between swirling Hilda’s clit and licking up and down. And then that tongue is gone, replaced by Zelda’s lips, and when she sucks, lightly at first and then more insistently, Hilda lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a scream and a sob, and she can’t tell if she’s soaring or dying; she only knows that nothing has ever felt so wonderful. And the world is fading at the edges again, just like it did in the kitchen with Zelda’s hand down her knickers.

“Oh, Satan, Zelda,” pants Hilda, “Zelda, I’m going to…”

But she doesn’t, doesn’t get the chance, because Zelda ceases all movement, cruelly ripping her mouth away, moving back up to kiss Hilda’s hip, which she does gently, lovingly, but manages to draw her sister’s ire regardless.

Hilda sits up on the bed, looking down on Zelda, still in her nightgown and lying on her stomach in between Hilda’s thighs, which she’s now anointing with light, leisurely kisses while her hands move up and down her sister’s calves.

“Why did you stop?” Hilda demands, and she tries to be angry, impatient, but instead all of her desperation and need are pouring out and she sounds like Sabrina when she was little and one of them denied her dessert or the television. “I was about to…”

“I know,” replies Zelda, now using her black-painted fingernails to gently scratch patterns into the skin of Hilda’s thighs. But she refuses to elaborate, and now Hilda is properly mad.

“Zelda,” she says, almost hurt, “if you’re just going to tease me…”

Before she can finish, Zelda’s right hand has left her thigh, her fingers abandoning their scratching to skim through the wetness at Hilda’s center. She moans unconsciously as Zelda touches, probes, then slides one finger directly into the willing heat. Zelda is surprised, despite all her prior experience, at just how hot Hilda is around her, and how tight. But, she reminds herself, the younger woman is a virgin, and she’s suddenly trying to remember if she’s ever slept with a virgin before. She doesn’t think so, not even when she was a virgin herself. It’s been so long since Zelda was where Hilda is now, and even back then, Zelda took to sex like a bird to wing; her first time was nowhere near as awkward and agonizing as all the older girls at the Academy had assured her it would be.

But Hilda is different. Hilda is romantic and sweet and has nothing to compare any of this to. And, more than that, this means something to her. Zelda’s virginity was an inconvenience, something she had to maintain until her baptism and then got rid of as swiftly as possible, because she knew it was only a matter of time, so what was the point of keeping it so jealously guarded? 

She still doesn’t know, can’t even speculate, but clearly Hilda has had her reasons. Suddenly Zelda is nervous, because if she fucks this up now, her sister will never get another chance at it, and it will be just one more thing she’s ruined for Hilda. She thinks that maybe she should have just let that blundering mortal man have her, because then when Hilda came back, defiled and miserable, at least she couldn’t have blamed Zelda for it, and Zelda would have even gotten the satisfaction of saying “I told you so.”

“Zelda?” She is brought back to Earth by Hilda calling her name, and she scolds herself for getting distracted, because Satan, her finger is still inside Hilda and she’s doing nothing but resting there and thinking, and she’d be frustrated, too, if one of her lovers tuned out immediately after penetration.

“Are you all right, Hilda?” she asks, semi-consciously kissing Hilda’s mound, which makes the younger woman hum in satisfaction.

“Yes, love, I’m fine.”

“Fine, or good?” Zelda asks, and Hilda’s face is a mask of confusion, so Zelda elaborates: “Do you want more?”

Hilda thinks, licks her lips, nods, and then Zelda’s sliding out of her, returning again to ease two fingers in, and Hilda’s moaning in earnest, biting her lip.

“That doesn’t hurt, does it?” asks Zelda, and when she looks up, Hilda is stricken by how much she looks like she genuinely cares, genuinely doesn’t want to cause her any discomfort. That’s different.

“No, Zelds, it’s…it’s nice…”

Zelda nods, and then returns her mouth to Hilda, holding her fingers inside while she licks her sister’s clit, once, twice, just until Hilda’s mewling and panting and clenching around her, before she latches back on and sucks. And as she pleasures Hilda with her mouth, igniting and kindling those little sparks again, she begins moving her fingers, spreading them, stretching Hilda before pulling almost out and then thrusting back in, gently.

Now Hilda’s little sparks have turned to flames, and Zelda’s suckling lips and flicking tongue and probing fingers are just this side of too much. It almost hurts, but the pain is both exquisite and delicious, and Hilda can’t help how her hips buck, alternately seeking and then withdrawing, but the effect is that Zelda hardly has to put in any effort at all. She only has to suckle and hold on as the younger woman’s loins shift; Hilda’s doing a good enough job of fucking herself. One leg wraps around Zelda’s shoulders and presses her down into the mattress, while a hand reaches out to grasp her sister’s hair, holds on firmly, because damn it, Hilda is so close now, and if Zelda stops this right in the middle, denies her release one more time, Hilda will make sure she gets her own little nap out in the Cain pit.

Hilda comes screaming the older witch’s name; well, Zelda’s and the Dark Lord’s, as well as an extended litany of expletives that Zelda wasn’t even aware Hilda had ever heard in her life. Zelda can’t help dropping her head to Hilda’s stomach, chuckling against the younger woman’s skin as Hilda lets out a strangled and entirely too loud, “Fuck!”

Hilda’s head sinks down to her pillow and her limbs relax from where she’s been holding on to Zelda. Everything is soft and swirly now as Hilda aftershocks in the wake of the strongest orgasm she’s had in her life, nothing like what she’s managed to do with her own hands or what Zelda drove her to in the kitchen earlier. And she’s so momentarily out of it that she doesn’t even notice that Zelda’s gotten up again, not until she opens her eyes and focuses on Zelda holding her panties, wiping her bloodied fingers on the white fabric.

“Oy!” Hilda says, “Those were perfectly good knickers!”

“You can do so much better than plain white cotton,” replies Zelda, as if this is an acceptable excuse. She rejoins Hilda on the bed, setting the underwear on the nightstand and then stretching out next to her. “Besides, you know as well as I do how powerful a witch’s virgin blood is. We could hex a mid-sized city with just that little bit.”

She sounds a touch _too_ excited about that, and Hilda rolls her eyes. “That is disgusting, Zelda. And demented.”

Zelda opens her mouth to defend herself, but before she can get even half a word out, Hilda’s rolling over to face her, pulling her close, kissing her, tasting herself on Zelda’s lips, on her tongue. And Zelda moans into the younger woman’s mouth, lets Hilda run her fingers over her arm before moving down her side and to her hip, urging Zelda to wrap around her before flipping them so Zelda’s astride her again.

“Really, sister,” Zelda says, raising an eyebrow, “Have you turned into a nymphomaniac after just one encounter?” 

She’s only halfway joking; this is a thing she’s heard about virgins, that once they’re freshly deflowered, they end up wanting sex constantly, will wear you out with their incessant need. On the one hand, Zelda cannot see a downside to this. She has, at least in theory, no objection to staying in this bed for the foreseeable future, making love to Hilda for the next half-century of their lives. But that would probably be bad for the business, for the baby and also their two older but no less needy charges.

Hilda scoffs, shaking her head.

“No,” she replies, tracing one finger up Zelda’s arm and making the older witch shiver, “But you’ve done so much for me tonight, and I want to pay you back…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so there are now exactly 69 Kudos on this work and on the one hand I don't want you guys to stop giving me Kudos (I'm a damn attention whore) but also the number is just too perfect right now ugh.


	4. Chapter 4

“Don’t be daft, Hilda; you don’t have to do anything for me,” Zelda insists. Even though every muscle in her body is so tightly coiled it’s almost painful, even though she’s got the entire Atlantic flowing between her legs and it feels like there’s hellfire licking her skin. Her own pleasure is not supposed to be the point, though. Really, there was no point to any of this, beyond alleviating the jealousy that has been clawing her soul ever since Hilda’s job took her out of their home and into _his_ arms.

She had known that Hilda wanted that man before Hilda herself did. Zelda could hear it in the way her sister said his name, the ruddiness of her cheeks as she recounted the details of her work over dinner. The bliss that she exuded each time she came home, a sort of high-strung mirth that Zelda cannot remember feeling about anyone, ever. And it made Zelda angry, and she wanted to stamp out that dreamy contentment, because how dare Hilda even think about being happy with anyone else? 

Not that Zelda had ever made her happy. Nobody could be happy with Zelda; she didn’t know how to do anything but ridicule and pick at old wounds and make everyone around her want to die, right up to the moment she swung the hammer or plunged in the knife herself. But beneath all of that, she had always wanted to make Hilda happy. Always meant to, but there was something inside Zelda, something jaded and withered that was never satisfied, and sometimes, seeing the hurt in her sister’s eyes, Zelda had genuinely hated herself for saying or doing whatever had put it there. But of course, that never stopped her from doing it all over again; nothing could stop her, not all the collective willpower in the world.

Zelda realized long ago that she didn't deserve Hilda, doesn’t deserve to have the younger woman in her bed, in her home, in her life, and now she feels it more strongly than ever, and all at once she wants to pull away, to leave Hilda alone, to save Hilda from her. She knows that once the flush of orgasm fades from Hilda’s cheeks, she’ll probably hate Zelda for starting this, feel disgusted with herself for letting Zelda push her into it, because this is not how things are supposed to work; it is not right. 

Even in their society, where everyone fucks everybody else, in every position imaginable, where almost nothing is off-limits, what she and her sister have just done would disgust anyone who found out about it. That’s the irony of it all; Zelda has had so many people, so many times; she is free to have anyone at all, besides the only person she’s really ever wanted, the person she has just drawn into a web of mutual shame and, eventually, resentment.

So she demurs when Hilda’s hands sweep up her thighs, insists again that Hilda is not beholden to her, does not owe her an orgasm, owes her less than nothing, in fact. And she says it in the authoritative, irritated tone that has always worked with Hilda, always made the younger woman quail and retreat to her baking or gardening or one of her romance novels. 

Zelda thinks that this will be the end of it, waits for Hilda to protest, to cry and kick her out of the room, is therefore wholly unprepared for the way that Hilda’s arms lock around her waist as she moves up into a sitting position, resting her back against her pillows. The way that she drags Zelda with her, so she’s now sitting in Hilda’s lap, and then kisses her, slowly, in that sweet Hilda way that she thinks she could get addicted to if she’d let herself.

Then Hilda’s lips are at Zelda’s ear, and she nips the lobe before whispering, “You’re not making me do anything I don’t want to, Zelds.”

She pulls away, stares Zelda down, and her expression says that she knows exactly where Zelda’s thoughts have strayed, knows her sister’s insecurities better than even Zelda herself. It’s mocking, too, that look in Hilda’s eyes, because really, how could Zelda have been so full of herself to believe that any of this would have happened unless Hilda also wanted it?

 _You are not the only person in the world with thoughts and feelings and desires, Zelda Spellman._ The thought originates in Zelda’s brain, but she hears it in her sister’s voice, and it isn’t exactly a revelation, but it’s a reminder of something she doesn’t consider nearly often enough, that everything in the world isn’t always her fault, her responsibility. That she’s not alone, in this or anything else.

And Hilda’s kiss is proof of that, her lips and the fingers tracing slowly over her bottom, underneath her gown, lifting it up until Zelda’s bare as the day she was born, exposed to her sister’s eyes. 

Hilda takes a long look at her, during which Zelda has to fight the urge to cover herself up, because Hilda’s the first person who’s seen her like this in almost twenty years; even Faustus never undressed her fully. He never had any interest in admiring Zelda, nor the patience for slow kisses and delicate touches. Zelda’s forgotten altogether how nice it can feel to just be like this, naked with someone else, but the way Hilda’s looking at her makes her feel vulnerable, and she’s not used to that, nor is she accustomed to being looked at like she’s something to be loved rather than simply coveted.

Before Zelda can spoil the moment by saying or doing or thinking anything, Hilda comes forward, sinking her fingers into the flesh of her sister's ass and latching on to Zelda’s left nipple. Hilda sucks hard; she’s wanted this for so long that she can’t help herself, and Zelda’s sighing in her ear, mewling gently, and it’s a soft sound that surprises both sisters, because softness and Zelda have always been at opposite ends of the emotional spectrum. Hilda finds that she loves it, takes her cues from the sound of Zelda’s moans, because now she’s wandered into unfamiliar territory, is acting entirely on instinct.

All she knows, all she can think, is that the taste of Zelda’s skin is driving her mad, the salt of her sweat and hidden sweetness of the flesh beneath, and she's decided that the slip and slide of Zelda’s rigid nipple in her mouth might be her new favorite thing. Her hands roam the rest of Zelda’s body, the insides of her thighs and then up to her waist and over her back. When she reaches higher, though, the older woman’s muscles go stiff, and she pulls away, her breast falling from Hilda’s mouth.

Hilda stops caressing, looks at her sister, puzzled, and without even thinking, she brings her hand further up Zeldas shoulders, feels the roughness there, the scars, some of them still beaded with the remnants of scabs. _Bloody hell_ , she thinks, understanding why Zelda wouldn’t want her to touch there, hating herself for forgetting, hating whatever was going on in Zelda’s head to make her give herself those wounds.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. Sorry for touching, for reminding, for not being there to counteract the darkness in Zelda that earned her those scars to begin with.

Zelda doesn’t reply; she’s gone still and quiet, looks like she might be on the verge of tears. At a loss for what else to do, Hilda comes forward, places a little kiss on Zelda’s sternum, moves her hands down to the middle of the older witch’s back and kneads the flesh there, and now Zelda’s touching her again, fingers playing in her hair, but it’s tentative. Hilda’s full lips flutter on Zelda’s chest, her neck and then her shoulder, the right one, where there’s the faintest edge of a scar spilling over from her back, and Hilda kisses that, too, drags her tongue over it and has Zelda shivering.

“It’s all right, Zelds,” whispers Hilda, and now words are flowing from her and she can’t stop them, would like to, because Zelda hates it when she babbles, but can’t, “You’re beautiful; you’ve always been the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and I love you, and it’s all right.”

Zelda’s lips stop the flood, silencing and distracting Hilda, who’s now wrestling with her sister’s probing tongue while her hands find their way to the inside of Zelda's thigh where the flesh is smooth and hot, then inwards, towards her sister’s center, and now she’s retracting her earlier assessment about Zelda’s breasts being her favorite thing because she knows that _this_ is the best thing in the world.

It’s not the heat of Zelda, or the slickness or the way that her inner muscles clamp down on Hilda’s fingers. It is, rather, the way that Zelda whines into her ear, the way that her “yes” sounds so utterly unhinged, so desperate. Never in all of her life, in all of their lives together, has Hilda ever felt that Zelda needed her. She’s always thought that, if she were gone, her sister would be just fine; Hilda’s absence probably wouldn’t even touch her. But Zelda needs her now, needs Hilda’s middle and index finger inside her, needs the rough, insistent slide of Hilda’s thumb over her clit.

Hilda continues her ministrations between her sister’s legs, lets go of Zelda’s mouth and finds her breasts again, suckling a nipple, and Zelda hums with pleasure, her arms clasping around her sister’s shoulders as her hips cant against Hilda’s loins. Now Zelda’s the one who can’t shut up, can’t stop herself from begging, _more, harder, oh Satan, yes; there_ , can’t help the high-pitched moans and sobs that Hilda draws out of her with her fingers gliding in and out and all over, her mouth fastened over one nipple and then the other.

Zelda is utterly unprepared for her orgasm. She’s used to her lovers pounding and scratching and tearing them out of her, to the almost painful edge of each one and the way that it’s always over too soon. But this one goes on and on, and she feels it everywhere, from her cunt to the ends of her hair, and it’s simultaneously the gentlest and most intense thing she’s felt in her life, and even when her body has been pushed over the precipice of what it can handle, the orgasm doesn’t stop, but rather slows, tapering off.

She’s still shaking when she falls forward, still clenching as her sister’s arms wrap around her and she burrows into Hilda, hiding her face in the younger woman’s chest and clinging, something she’s never done with any of her other lovers, but she can’t think straight, can barely move, and all she wants is to be close to her sister. And Hilda accepts it; indeed, she revels in it, the warmth of Zelda and the way that she’s trembling and occasionally sighing. Hilda holds her close and kisses the top of Zelda’s head, languishing with her sister in the afterglow.

After a long while, Zelda moves, lifts her head to look up at the younger woman, breaks the silence.

“I…you know that I…I love you, too, right?” she asks. 

Hilda’s eyebrows knit together, and she replies, “Of course, Zelds. I know that.”

Though she can barely remember the last time Zelda actually said it. “Love” isn’t a word that’s casually thrown around in the Spellman household, admittedly; it’s something they all feel between them, herself and Zelda and their niece and nephew, but the words themselves are hardly ever spoken. Hilda’s more free with it than Zelda, but usually only with Ambrose and Sabrina.

Now that she’s thinking about it, Hilda supposes the last time Zelda said it to her was sixteen years ago, the day after they received the news of Edward’s death. Hilda had been washing the dishes, obsessively cleaning the whole house, really, just for something to do with her hands. And she’d plucked Edward’s favorite teacup out of the bottom of the sink. It hadn’t been washed since the last time he’d been at the house, the night he and Diana dropped off Sabrina before leaving for Italy. She considered not cleaning it, didn’t know if she could bear to wash him off of the cup, and the thought made her tremble so hard she dropped the cup on the floor and immediately burst into tears when it shattered. Zelda had held her then, kissed her forehead and wept with her, and after they were both momentarily cried out, just before they broke apart, Zelda whispered those three words. At the time, Hilda had been too distraught to savor it.

“I know I never say it,” Zelda admits now, “It’s just…well, I don’t…”

“I know, Zelds. I know.”

Zelda nods, and she’s quiet again, for a while, before she moves over in bed, so that she’s lying next to Hilda instead of on top of her.

“So,” she says, focused on the far wall because she can’t look at Hilda, “Doctor Cerberus. Are you still going to be seeing him?” 

Hilda recognizes the assumption in Zelda’s tone, that of course Hilda is, and that’s okay, because Zelda will demand nothing from her. She’s never had anyone to herself before, never belonged to just one person or expected that kind of fidelity from anyone, so why should she now? It almost breaks Hilda’s heart, because Zelda should know her, should know she’s not like that, can’t be that way.

But she keeps her tone light when she replies, “We were never ‘seeing’ each other, Zelda. We were groping in the storeroom.”

Zelda laughs wryly. “Well…are you going to keep doing that?”

“No.” Zelda is surprised with how quick the response is, how utterly certain. “No; I’m going to put a stop to that when I go in for my next shift.”

Zelda doesn’t know what to say, so she says nothing, is content to lie there in the renewed stillness and quiet, until Hilda breaks it all apart with an inquiry of her own: “What about you and Father Blackwood?” 

Zelda bites her lip before asking, “Would you believe that we were just groping in a storeroom?”

She expects Hilda to giggle, to smile, at least, and is disappointed when her sister’s gaze remains firm, insistent.

“No,” says Zelda, “I won’t be… _seeing_ him anymore, either. He and I haven’t _seen_ each other in quite a while. Not since…”

“Since you stole his baby and spirited her away to hide in our house? How did you even manage that, by the way? I’ve been wondering how one sneaks an entire infant out of the Academy of Unseen Arts.”

“Prudence let me out a back way,” Zelda replies, “Faustus was so distracted with his shiny new son that he didn’t notice anything after I handed him the babe. He didn’t care what I was up to. Probably still doesn’t.”

“I imagine that will change once he realizes that we have his daughter.”

Zelda feels a retort building in her throat, bites her tongue to keep it in, and composes herself enough to whisper, “I’m sorry.”

Hilda just raises her eyebrows, and Zelda throws back her head and repeats, “I’m sorry. For bringing this down upon you. On all of us.” She turns back to her sister, tries to explain as best she can, as much as Zelda herself has managed to puzzle out, anyway, because even she can’t fully rationalize what she did. 

“I was scared for her, Hilda. It sounds like a stupid excuse, but I really and truly was. Faustus asked me to be his children’s night mother, and even without the benefit of a ceremony, I still felt the obligation. And then Lady Blackwood…the last thing she did before she died was make me promise to keep her children safe. And when I looked at that baby…she reminded me of Sabrina, and of you, too, when you were small. I didn’t think, Hilda; I simply did.”

“So it had nothing at all to do with _him_?” asks Hilda, and Zelda almost smiles when she realizes that her sister speaks of Blackwood in the same tone of disdain Zelda reserves for Doctor Cerberus.

“Other than the fact that I thought he might murder his own child, no. If I’m being honest, it had more to do with you.”

“Me? I certainly don’t recall ever giving any indication that I wanted you to bring home a baby!”

“No,” Zelda acknowledges. She immediately regrets the admission, because now she has to think how she can explain this to Hilda in a way that doesn’t make her seem manipulative and diabolical, and that’s hard because at the time, she was, in fact, being intentionally manipulative and diabolical. She of course feels contrite now, and that just makes it even more complicated, because Zelda’s not used to contrition, not used to discussing her emotions, either, so she’s really got no idea how to say any of this.

She decides to stick with the simple facts. “Sabrina is sixteen now and spends most of her time either at the Academy or with her mortal friends. In a few short years, there will be no need for her to live here at all, and if you were her, would you want to stay in Greendale with your middle-aged aunts? Ambrose is this close to having his sentence fully lifted, and we both know he’ll fly away to Hong Kong or Madagascar the second it is. And you…you’ve been spending all your time in that bookstore, with that man, and I thought…I thought you were all going to leave me. And I also thought that maybe if there was a baby to take care of…”

“That I would stay. That you could keep me here,” Hilda finishes. 

Zelda nods, and there’s anger rising in Hilda now, she can see it, but it’s tempered with something else that Zelda cannot place, and she’s thinking that this, this is exactly why she never talks to anybody about her damn _feelings_ , never spends that much time examining her own motivations. This is why she simply does and never explains herself. And she’s ready for Hilda to push her away now, literally, to shove her out of bed and then immediately start packing, preparing to leave for good, because there’s no way that Hilda’s not rethinking her decision to give up Doctor Cerberus. How could she not be? He may be just a mortal who wears ludicrous costumes, but at least he never tried to baby trap her.

Instead of any of that, though, Hilda just reaches for her sister, grabbing hold of the flesh on the inside of her arm, taking it between her fingertips and pinching, hard, until Zelda squeals. It’s juvenile; Hilda hasn’t done that since they were girls and Zelda smashed her favorite doll, but it gets the message across, and Zelda looks properly chastised.

“I thought you were meant to be the smart one, Zelda,” Hilda says. She turns away from her sister, lies back, shakes her head.

“We both know I could never really leave you,” she continues, quietly, more to herself than to her sister, “I mean, Satan, the last time I even tried was…gosh…Paris, wasn’t it?”

Zelda nods, quickly confirming that yes, she remembers that perfectly, that autumn day in 1976 when she woke up to find Hilda’s suitcases in the hall and a Parisian forwarding address stuck to the fridge with a magnet, accompanying a note saying not to expect her back for a long while. Zelda remembers standing on the porch in her thin nightie, shuddering as the chill air and her aggravated emotions raised goosebumps all over, screaming after Hilda’s retreating form that fine, she wasn’t wanted at home anyway, and Zelda hoped she would stay gone forever. _At last, some fucking peace and quiet!_ she had yelled before her sister disappeared around the bend.

“I think I lasted, what, two weeks?” recalls Hilda.

“Two weeks and four days,” Zelda corrects her, frowning, “And you only came back because of Ambrose.”

Well, that had been Hilda’s cover story, anyway. And it was even partially true. Her nephew had sent her that letter, saying that the house was awash with takeout containers because neither he nor Zelda cooked, that when Zelda wasn’t moping in her bedroom she was hexing the appliances and starting electrical fires, and could Hilda please come home so that Ambrose wouldn’t have to fear the destruction of the only place on Earth he was allowed to be. The letter had the been the catalyst that made her buy a plane ticket, but it was preceded by a fortnight of crushing loneliness that even her ever-increasing consumption of fine wine couldn’t ameliorate. Satan, towards the end, Hilda had even been nostalgic for the feeling of Zelda’s hands pressed into her throat.

“You don’t believe that, do you?” asks Hilda, gently, and the question is accompanied by a kiss on Zelda’s forehead. And when Zelda turns to look at Hilda, her eyes are glassy, and Hilda sighs. “Oh, Zelds. You really are quite daft, aren’t you?”

“Evidently,” Zelda replies, her voice choked by unshed tears, tears that Hilda doesn’t allow to fall, because she gathers her sister up, pulls Zelda to her again, kisses her long and deep. She can feel the heat rising in her cheeks and in Zelda's, too, thinks that she might be in danger of starting this whole thing all over. 

But out in the kitchen, the cuckoo clock they inherited from a weird old uncle goes off, reverberating annoyingly through the house, and Zelda states the obvious, that it’s now two in the morning, and Sabrina goes back to school tomorrow and it will be suspicious if they’re both lying in. That is a conversation for another time, what they’re going to tell their niece and nephew and when, if they’ll even need to say anything at all, because they both now acknowledge that they haven’t exactly been quiet, and Ambrose is directly above Hilda’s room while Sabrina’s just down the hall.

The realization makes Hilda’s cheeks burn, and now it’s Zelda’s turn to chuckle and mock. She rolls over to turn off Hilda’s bedside lamp and then comes back to curl into her sister again, ordering her not to worry about it, to just go to sleep, which Hilda does gladly, because she’s properly exhausted, and Zelda’s body is close and warm and reassuring, and she’s drifting away before she even knows it, sated and truly content for possibly the first time ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for now, kids. But trust me, I still have ideas for Spellman Sisters Sexy Times, which I just might write up into a follow-up fic, once the semester is over and the school monkey is off my back.


End file.
